Not An Exact Science
by Gary Merchant
Summary: Set after The Green Death: the Doctor is missing Jo Grant.


NOT AN EXACT SCIENCE

The Brigadier strolled into the lab, about to berate the Doctor for not completing yet another report, when he saw him. He was sat, disconsolate, on a stool, his head bowed.

If he was honest, Lethbridge Stewart had only used the report as an excuse to talk to the Doctor. It had been just two weeks since Jo Grant and Professor Clifford Jones had set off for the Amazon, and the Doctor had barely spoken since. The Brigadier sympathised – the place seemed empty without Jo's boundless energy, and he'd seen how badly Mike Yates had taken her decision. So he could appreciate how the Doctor was feeling. "Penny for them?"

The Doctor looked up. "Oh, I was just… you know."

"Quite." The Brigadier looked at his friend. "I take it you're not planning to take root on that stool."

This raised a brief smile. "I wasn't intending to, no."

"Good. Then I'm sure you can spare me a few moments in my office."

The Doctor shook his head. "I'm rather busy at the moment. Can't it wait?"

"I'm afraid not, Doctor. This is rather important." The Brigadier was insistent, and wasn't about to take 'no' for an answer.

After making sure they would not be disturbed, Lethbridge Stewart began rooting around in the bottom drawer of his desk. "I always keep this for emergencies, and… ah, here we are." He produced a bottle of malt whisky and a couple of glasses. He poured out a full measure for both of them, and passed one to the Doctor. "I rather think you need this."

"Alistair, this isn't really necessary…"

"I disagree." The Brigadier raised an eyebrow, a smile on his lips. "Now, do I have to make that an order?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Oh well, if you insist."

The Brigadier raised his glass. "To absent friends." They drank, the Brigadier noting with wry amusement the Doctor's eyes bulge slightly at the strength of the amber liquid. "Not too bland for you, is it?"

"No." There was a slight hoarseness in the Doctor's voice, which quickly faded. "No, it's fine. Now, what was so important that you had to drag me in here?"

"Well, I wanted your advice," Lethbridge Stewart confided. "I'm worried about the health of a member of staff."

"What's wrong with him?"

"Basically he seems listless, can't concentrate. His mind isn't really on the job."

"Go on."

"He isn't really ill as such," the Brigadier continued, "but I'm concerned about his well-being."

The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, I'm no medical Doctor, but if things are that bad, I'd suggest he takes a break from UNIT and try to relax."

"An excellent suggestion," Lethbridge Stewart agreed. "And I hope you'll take your own advice."

"My own…?" Realisation dawned. "Lethbridge Stewart, that was a rotten trick!"

"The rotten ones are usually the most effective, I find." Smiling, the Brigadier refilled both glasses. "I've also found that a good malt cures all ills. Colds, sore throats – even depressed Time Lords."

The Doctor looked at his old friend. "Have I really been so miserable?"

"Put it this way," the Brigadier replied. "You've been like a wet weekend in Cromer."

"Ah." The Doctor looked shamefaced. "Not good then?"

"Not good at all." Lethbridge Stewart offered a kind smile. "Look, I know you miss Jo, Doctor. We all do. But she was bound to move on at some point, and that business with Global Chemicals only acted as a catalyst."

"I know all that, Alistair. But why did she have to fall in love as well?"

"Because that's what we humans do, believe it or not." The Brigadier sat back in his chair. "We don't always get it right, but then love isn't an exact science. Frankly, Doctor, life isn't an exact science at the best of times."

"I suppose not." The Doctor took another sip of whisky, now enjoying the warming feeling inside. "I've never really understood relationships – not past the social graces, at least. And yet I can see that Jo and Cliff do care for each other."

"Then be happy for them." The Brigadier raised his glass. "To the future?"

The Doctor nodded. "Yes, to the future." He drained his glass in one, his flushed face immediately suggesting that he'd wished he hadn't. "My word, this stuff's pretty potent."

"It just needs maturing," Lethbridge Stewart said, straight-faced. "I was thinking, when was the last time you had a night out?"

"I go to the club once in a while," the Doctor replied.

"That's not what I mean." The Brigadier put his glass down. "You've never joined me or Mike at the pub, or had what constitutes a proper night out."

The Doctor put up a vague defence. "I'm not what you'd call a party animal."

"Nevertheless, I think it's just what you need." The Brigadier was not going to let the Doctor off the hook. "What about tomorrow evening?"

"Alistair, I don't really think…"

"Doctor." Lethbridge Stewart forestalled any objections. "I don't know how things work in that mad universe of yours, but I'm sure everyone needs a boost of morale at some point in their lives – and right now, that includes you. Do I make myself clear?"

The Doctor sank back in his chair, defeated. "I'm not going to get out of this, am I?"

"Not a chance, Doctor," came the reply. "A night out will be just the thing to blow away the cobwebs." The ringing of the telephone cut through their conversation. The Brigadier snatched up the receiver. "Benton, I thought I told you…" He listened for a moment, then sat bolt upright in his chair. "The PM? Well, you'd better put her through."

The Doctor gratefully took this as his cue to leave. As he closed the door behind him, he wondered just what plans the Brigadier had in store for tomorrow night. As if he didn't have enough to do.

Except that he hadn't been doing anything remotely useful for the past two weeks. By his own admission, he'd hardly ventured out of the lab once in that time. Maybe the Brigadier was right – perhaps a night out would help.

The Doctor was beginning to warm to the idea. Perhaps it was the effects of the whisky, but there was a definite spring in his step as he strolled back to the lab.


End file.
